CHAPTER XX.
At the Hague, August passed by glowing hot, but the nights were cool on the terrace at Scheveningen, or in the tent of the Bosch. It was Sunday evening, and Betsy stayed at home; old Madame van Raat had not been to see her for so long, that she asked her mother-in-law to come around; Sunday was not much of a day at Scheveningen. They were to drink tea in the conservatory, the glass doors of which were already open. Henk walked with Madame van Raat through the garden, and the old lady admired his splendid roses. Betsy and Vincent sat alone.
“I have had a letter from Eline: she is coming back with the Erlevoorts on Wednesday. The Howards will remain a little longer at the Horze,” she said.
“Indeed?” answered Vincent. “And when Eline returns I must go, I suppose?” he asked bluntly.
Betsy felt alarmed, but she smiled very pleasantly.
“The idea! Not at all. You know, our house is always open to you, until you have found something for yourself. Don’t you hear anything from—what is the name of that friend in New York?”
“Lawrence St. Clare. No; I have not heard anything from him for some time. You see one forgets one’s friends when they are so far away. I can’t blame him.”
He leaned back in his cane chair with an air of something like resignation. In the meantime he felt himself very well at ease, and agreeably soothed by the luxury which surrounded him. The garden was well kept, rich in flowers and statuary. And in those surroundings, in the presence of Betsy, very elegant in her light summer dress, by the soft glitter of the silver and the Japanese porcelain, he felt himself safe against the many unpleasantnesses of life. It was rest, monotonous if you like, but soothing and refreshing. Betsy he knew how to master, but it was unnecessary to make his power felt; besides, he was too lazy for it. Was not his present life an easy one? what should he trouble himself about?
“What would you say if I were to seek a wife?” he suddenly asked, inwardly thinking of the pleasures a wealthy marriage might provide him.
“A wife! oh, a splendid idea! Shall I try and find one for you? What sort of one do you wish?”
“Handsome she need not be, only elegant. Not too unsophisticated or idealistic. Money of course.”
“Of course. A foolish love-affair I certainly don’t look for in you. What do you think of the Eekhofs?”
“Are you mad? two giggling ninnies—and no money, is there?”
“Some say there is, others declare that they live too extravagantly; any way you might try and find out. But were you in earnest, Vincent, or was it only by way of saying something?”
“Not at all. I think I should do well if I married. Don’t you think I’m right?”
Betsy looked at him searchingly, and her glance was full of secret contempt. With his lack-lustre eyes, his languid movements, his indolent voice, he did not much impress her as an ideal husband for a young girl.
“Not quite. I think you are a terrible egotist; neither do I believe that a wife would find much support in you. You are weak—I mean morally, of course.”
She soon regretted her words and felt irritated at her own imprudence. She nearly shuddered when he looked at her with that mysterious smile, with those soft, dull, snake-like eyes.
“And a wife has always need of support, eh?” he said in measured tones. “You too, don’t you—you find your support in Henk? you depend entirely upon him, and he is strong enough—I mean physically, of course?”
Every word he uttered he emphasized as with a spiteful meaning, and every word pierced sharp as a needle into her domineering nature; but she dared not answer him, she shrank back in fear and only smiled, as if he had merely made a jest. He too laughed, a kindly gentle laugh like hers, but full of veiled revengefulness.
They were both silent for a while, conscious of the struggle under that outward show of good-nature, until Betsy began gently to murmur some complaints about old Madame van Raat, who always misunderstood her, and with whom she could never agree; and whilst he sat indifferently listening to her, she felt how she abhorred him, how glad she would have been, after having him in the house for a month, to give him his congé; but she knew that she could never do it without risking a terrible scene; he would continue hanging about till the end of time, and she could not think of any means to get him away. It was all Henk’s fault; if he’d only given him that wretched little sum the idea would never have entered her mind to ask him into the house. She detested Vincent, and she detested herself for her fear of him. She was rich and happy; what harm could he do her? But the more she argued, the more the fear clung to her, like an enervating idiosyncrasy, of which she could not free herself.
Madame van Raat and Henk were slowly returning from the garden, and they sat down in the conservatory at one of the open glass doors. But after a few words about the roses, the old lady grew quiet and pensive. Amid the luxury of her son’s house a certain chill, a vacuum, seemed to seize her and make her melancholy, even more melancholy than she was in her own lonely house. She had never had that feeling before when she was with Henk; but now it seemed as if her love for her son did not yield sufficient warmth to dispel that chill vacuum. And suddenly the truth struck her. She missed Eline—Eline who, wherever she went, beamed forth the light of her fascination; she missed her dear child, so different from Betsy, so loving and sympathetic. And she could not help saying in her sad voice—
“Your house seems deserted without Elly. What will it be when she is married and gone away for good? Dear Elly!”
She did not hear what Betsy and Vincent answered; she did not hear what Henk said; she let her gray head fall upon her bosom and sat staring in front of her, the bony hands folded in her lap. Life seemed hollow to her, a gray existence full of grief, full of partings and tears, in which men hovered round, sombre and sad, like so many tragic phantoms. And she shuddered when Betsy asked her whether she was cold.
Betsy, though she had never confessed it, had, just like her mother-in-law, in spite of Vincent, who “was so sociable,” also found it lonely and miserable in the house. There was so little change in the summer; it was eternally the tent and eternally Scheveningen; she was really getting sick of it. And now that Eline was back, beaming in her fresh happiness, which seemed to diffuse a rustic odour through Betsy’s drawing-room; now that Eline was full of tales about the Horze, about Théodore and Truus and the children, about the Howards and the little van Ryssels, Betsy perceived that Madame van Raat was right—that Eline was the charm of her house. Now Betsy herself commenced to look forward with some misgiving to the time when Eline would leave her, and that misgiving greatly softened her ordinary acerbity. Otto, whom she formerly thought too formal and affected, she thought charming, now that she frequently saw him, for she had insisted that he should often come to dinner.
At table the conversation once more grew lively and cheerful, quite different from the slow, dragging discourse between herself, her husband, and Vincent. To Eline her manner became gentle, out of gratitude for the old pleasantness which she had brought back with her, and they held endless consultations about Eline’s trousseau, which it was now time to see about, if she wanted to marry in the coming winter. Their afternoons they spent together with dressmakers and in shops; they travelled together with Otto to Brussels, where Eline wanted to order her wedding-dress, rich but simple, nothing but white satin, without lace or furbelows.
Eline in the meantime, in all this stir and bustle, had little time left her for thinking, and only in the evening did she get any rest. In the evening they often stayed at home. It was September. Scheveningen gradually lost its attractions, and now that Otto came to dinner it generally grew late without their noticing it. She sat with him in the garden, or in the violet boudoir, and she became quite used to her calm happiness; it seemed in fact as if she had never known anything different. Everything was so restful and contented within her, that she almost longed for some emotion. But no, she loved Otto; that single emotion sufficed for her. Never anything but that; always that calm, always that blue ether!